When journalist Jordan Walker asks Lindsay Fleming for help investigating a puzzling death, the two feel a connection to each other that is stronger than anything they've ever known. With each new discovery, more questions arise about their mysterious telepathic bond--along with more danger.
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August 14, 2005
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Excerpt from Beyond Control by Rebecca York
THE LONG DRIVEWAY made a graceful curve, and Jordan Walker slowed his Mercedes sedan near a mound of tasteful white azaleas as he stared at the Tudor mansion that had been hidden until now by artfully placed stands of trees.
If he wasn't mistaken, the residence was a copy of a palace owned by the Prince of Wales.
He'd made excellent time on the two-hour drive up from D.C. Which was good, because he knew Leonard Hamilton gave extra points for punctuality. He also liked men who spoke frankly, delivered value for money, and had the guts to stand up to him.
Over the past several days Jordan had done considerable research on the billionaire. He knew his age? sixty-eight. His state of health poor. His passion for opera, his famous collection of American art, from Copley to Whistler to O'Keeffe. His fondness for orchids.
The background check was standard operating procedure for Jordan because he'd learned that preparation often meant the difference between success and failure.
But careful research was only part of what had earned him the Pulitzer Prize. He had something more: a facility for reading people for knowing when the subject of an interview was blowing smoke like a criminal defense lawyer with a guilty client.
The paving surface changed from concrete to cobblestones as Jordan reached the circular driveway in front of the house.
He parked, then stepped out beside a neatly mulched bed of white and yellow tulips, planted in careful rows like soldiers guarding the entrance.
The sun was bright. The air smelled as clean as his mom's fresh laundry drying on the line. And the security camera high on the wall tracked him as if it were a jungle predator.
After stretching the kinks out of his arms and legs, he climbed the three brick steps to the double-wide doors. Seconds after he rang the bell, a tall, thin man in a dark suit opened the right-hand door.
"Yes, sir. Come in. Mr. Hamilton will meet you in the conservatory," he said with a very upper-class British accent.
Jordan stepped into a vast foyer that would easily have swallowed the first floor of the modest house where he'd grown up.